After great pain, a formal feeling comes-
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs-
The stiff Heart questions was it He, That bore
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round-
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought-
A wooden way
A Quartz contentment, like a stone-
This is the Hour of Lead-
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow-
First-Chill-the Stupor-then the letting go-
Yes I am using you for an essay assignment. My project is to relate a poem to my daily life.
You may have noticed that I changed my profile a bit. I stated that (in)fertility doesn't define who I am. I can honestly say that I feel that way now.
This poem speaks to me. In a morbid freaky way..
I have accepted. I have let go.